


If It Fits...

by oroc



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Face-Sitting, Legos, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oroc/pseuds/oroc
Summary: T'Challa becomes more approachable over time.





	If It Fits...

Peter's not good at talking.

He talks a lot when he's fighting, but that's anxiety, that's whatever flavour of ass burgers he's chomping that day, nothing clever.

He's two feet away, all princely body and kingly neck, and-

"You may speak, Mr. Parker."

Peter ducks and looks away. T'Challa's hand closes over his shoulder.

"You will not incur an international incident if you would like to speak with me," he adds, and Peter's noticed this before: when he talks with Natasha, or with Steve, his accent gets thicker, his voice rumbles more. 

"You don't think I should be here, either."

"That was because you are sixteen." The king's hand hasn't left. In fact, it's sort of grown. His fingers unfurl like hot claws. "That is when we train warriors. I am aware your army lets you in at eighteen, but - this is a cultural difference, Mr. Parker."

Peter still hasn't looked up.

"May I call you Peter?"

"You're a King, I can't, like, stop you."

"Then I will confess: my uncle is ruling as Regent at the moment." Rrregent. "No-one has checked the Wakandan news, so I have referred to myself as King for the purposes of intimidation. I want to tell you something, Peter. I shall include an order, since you are so fond of aristocratic tradition."

He leans in - glances at Mr. Stark, who has been setting off low ripples in Peter's spider-sense since Peter met him - and murmurs in Peter's ear:

"You will only ever refer to me by my name, T'Challa. 'The Empire Strikes Back' was the first Western film I snuck into my country. It was discovered, I was chastised, the issue resolved. I, ah... hid something, something else, from my father, which he never discovered, nor did my staff, or bodyguards."

T'Challa hasn't become tense while he says this. The small murmur of his voice is not shy, or ashamed. It's mildly - mildly, mildly, Peter says to himself, nearly so much so that he can't hear T'Challa over the blood in his ears - mildly conspiratory.

"I built a star destroyer out of Lego when I was seven. It is in a casket, underground, in the forest."

Peter's breath mingles with that of a man eight years his senior.

"That's _awesome_ ," he says. He looks at T'Challa, and that is a mistake, because T'Challa huffs into his eyes.

"I didn't realise American teenagers actually said it like that." 

-

Peter is not going to graduate very well. He realises this while sorting through photos on a hammock between fire escapes -- he might not be close to the end of college, but he's now missed two finals.

Spider-Man has made a decent dent in the Kingpin's armour shipments this semester, though. Daredevil still tolerates his interference. It's weird - Peter knows, from the tracer he planted three years ago, that he tells every single mutant or other hero to get out of Hell's Kitchen as soon as he meets them, even the ones he likes. 

He's never done that with Peter. Peter knows no-one can stand him for long, either. 

A short thought about whether spiders smell nice is cut at the same time as his sling. Peter dodges being kicked in the face by a customised black boot (with toes?). 

"Hey!"

"Catch up." Ketchup? He's a he.

He's human, but he's decently fast. He slashes through the web-trap Peter had between the roofs above them and slips over faster than Peter can recognise him. Claws, then, and trained. 

"Prowler?" Peter's on the roof almost as fast as Kick-Man, but Kick-Man has vanished.

He's three roofs over. Low hanging, too, but well-lit. Peter jumps to him, and he slithers and scuttles his arms and legs around, pinning each of Kick-Man's and toppling them to the concrete. 

There's another half a second before Peter unwinds and jumps back. 

"Your highness! Your highness. Your. I - I'm so sorry!" The Panther shakes his head briefly, and silently walks toward Peter. "I - we can - I. Please. Star Wars stan bros?"

"What did I say to you, all those years ago, Spider-Man? I am the same man in the suit as out of it. Call me T'Challa." He's not stopping!

"Please don't kill me. I. What did I - did I do something? Did I --"

T'Challa's bare hand (his BARE hand) closes on his shoulder.

"I fancied a game, Peter, but you're much too fast to wrestle. You are nearing the end of your usual patrol period." Those fingers unfurl again - both shoulders, and hot as coals, and Peter nearly stumbles but for the hold T'Challa has on him. "Let me invite you - I have no good language for this."

"Yes."

"I am a clod. I'm glad we agree." The hands have dropped. Are they so hot because of the vibranium weave, or the claw system? "I could ask you to dinner, instead."

"That'd be classier." The hands are on his hips.

"I have an image to maintain."

"Purring young king?"

"I am an important diplomat, Peter."

"You just kicked a US national in the face to say hello."

T'challa tips them over the roof, and Peter shoots out a sheet for them. They both keep their masks on for this, and snuggle, hidden.

-

"You are so much hairier than I imagined you'd be," T'Challa says, staring, unfocused, at Peter's belly.

"I used to man-scape for the costume, but..." T'Challa's hand spreads over him, and Peter moans involuntarily. He starts curling up as his friend's fingers flex and do something cthonic to his middle. The hand twists - T'Challa is moving around, to no obvious purpose - he's so hard.

He's so big, too, for such a short guy, and he's a prick, because without asking, he sits on Peter's face.

"You are more than strong enough to push me off if you wish, 'Spider-Man'," he murmurs. "But go on. Let me just relax... onto you...."

Peter buries himself, happily, in the musk and very slight smell of sweat. The room is so dark now. His spider-sense does nothing. Nothing. He shifts a little, twitching, awkward, brushing his nose past the hole first before his lips can find it.

"Ah!"

Peter pauses.

"No, go on. That was good." Peter pecks T'Challa's hole and lies back on the mattress, smiling just widely enough that T'Challa can feel Peter's cheeks on his own. A warning rumble comes from above Peter - well above him - and his belly is tickled for his trouble. "I've eaten a few spiders in my time, Peter."

Peter's half-hard, now.

"You'll behave?"

"Mmh-hm."

"Kiss me, Peter." Peter does. "No, it's okay, go further." Peter obeys - his tongue slips out and over the hole, which opens with no coaxing at all, letting him in, and - he has to douche an awful lot, because Peter's never tasted this much flesh in an ass. "Deeper in, now. Don't be shy." 

Peter's entire world is T'Challa and his own tongue, and T'Challa's voice acting as a puppeteer. If Peter is honest with himself, he'll gladly admit that he could lie like this, pulling noises and commands from the King, for exactly as long as T'Challa allows - weeks, months. Chemical engineering and Stark grants can go fuck themselves if there's an opening as the King's mistress.

-

Afterwards, they eat well, in their hotel room, naked.

Peter's often just hung around naked whenever May was out - or whenever Flash was out, since coming to college - but in company, it's better. Solidified. It's not even sexual now, they're both so spent. They talk about Trek, of all things, given the Lego thing. They talk about Wakandan wildlife, about Wakandan textiles. About school in Queens. Ben. Gwen. Ororo. College. King-ing.

"Can I make a request?"

"Of course, Peter."

"Could you sit on my chest while we're talking like this?"

"Of course, Peter."


End file.
